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“Stop, Soundwave! Turn it off!”
Soundwave obliged his leader’s demand, allowing the deep, throbbing heartbeat of Unicron to cease its playback. The unnatural, primal resonance made even him uncomfortable.
Before him, Megatron staggered, clutching at his head. His wide optics were suffused with the violet essence of Unicron, his plating shuddering as the dark substance rose to overshadow the energon flowing within him. “I can still feel the pounding in my brain!”
Watching the warlord’s convulsions, Soundwave found himself mildly concerned for the state of Megatron’s mind. The silver mech had traveled down many unsavory roads in his quest for the Autobot extinction, but harnessing the power of Cybertron’s most ancient evil seemed almost too much. Though Megatron might have been willing to do otherwise, Soundwave desired greatly to stand on the field of victory with his brother at his side.
But then, Soundwave reminded himself, it was the Autobots who had driven them to such extremes with their continued resistance. Had they simply surrendered, the war would have ended long ago, and they could begin rebuilding Cybertron to be even more beautiful than before.
The surveillance bot turned back to his work, away from Megatron’s still writhing form. Dreaming of what would have happened had its place, but now it was a mere distraction. There was still work to do. The Autobots had rescued their precious Prime, and no doubt were planning for another assault.
“Soundwave! I said, make it STOP!”
Soundwave had only half-turned when his head was snapped back under a sudden, tremendous force. His vision blurred, audio receptors ringing with the impact of metal upon metal. Something shattered, and he felt a sharp pain below his right optic. The dark bot lurched back, half-stunned from the unexpected blow, staggering against his console and nearly falling. Megatron lowered his massive fist, his optics blazing purple fire.
At last, Soundwave’s vision cleared. He shook his head, and to his confusion, saw a small shower of glass falling to tinkle in delicate shards upon the floor. Then he felt a rush of horror as a new sensation registered—that of cool air upon his faceplate.
The slender mech straightened, and the nearby Vehicons fell back from before him. They averted their optics, trying to pretend they had not seen, but it was no use—the image was burned into their memory banks forever now, and even Airachnid shuddered at the sight.
Whether it was the dark bot’s natural state, or wrought of eons of gladiatorial brutality, none could tell, but death had carved itself into his visage with jagged claws. A molten orb, its baleful stare made even more terrible from irregular edges, energon oozing from the wound below as though it wept. Scabrous, twisted plating, shot through with grotesque mechanisms that pulsed with a hundred clandestine functions. The Vehicons’ sparks shriveled within them at the sight of that horrible, distorted parody of a face.
The sight of the silent bot’s shattered visor affected even Megatron. He gave a start, some of the crimson returning to his optics as a flood of emotions thrust aside the blood of Unicron coursing through him. For an instant, the warlord was speechless. What had he done?
“Soundwave,” he blurted out, “I—”
He clamped his jaw shut, suddenly aware of the Vehicons’ presence, and worse, Airachnid hovering behind him like an ominous shadow. His pride took over, as well as his warrior’s instincts. Not here. Not where others could see, could spread rumors, could capitalize on any perceived weakness.
The warlord composed himself, giving the dark bot a brisk nod. “Report to the medical bay immediately,” he ordered, once more the face of cold command. Then he turned away before the sight of the other mech’s dreadful optic—and the pain pouring from it—could threaten his façade.
Soundwave stood as though petrified, still in shock at what had just happened. But at Megatron’s words, he stirred, turning, covering his exposed optic with one servo and departing the bridge on silent pedes. The Vehicons shuddered as he passed.
The surveillance mech’s mind was roiling. Laserbeak’s systems surged upon his chassis, and Soundwave once again ordered him to hold position. When Megatron had struck, only a split-second command had kept the minicon from flying at the warlord himself in defense of his master. A relic instinct from the bygone days of Kaon.
But this was far worse than that brutal age of the dark mech’s life. Of course, Soundwave was no stranger to Megatron’s might—both had dealt their fair share of blows to one another, sometimes even removing limbs in the dusty heat of the gladiatorial pits. But this was different. In the pits, their matches had been impersonal, their strength bought and paid for by wealthy benefactors, bet upon by their equally elite peers. If they beat one another to a scrap heap, it was not because they wanted to, but because they were mere playthings to be pitted against one another.
Soundwave clamped his servo tighter over his exposed optic, loathing the feel of the air upon his faceplate. Above all, confusion reigned in his mind. In all the long eons they had known one another, Megatron had never struck him in any sort of personal way. Even when Soundwave failed him, which did not happen often, but it had happened, the warlord would vent his frustration on Starscream, the nearest Vehicon, the wall, but never Soundwave himself. The worst he had received was a verbal chastisement, and even that was a rare occurrence.
The more Soundwave considered it, the more disgust rose within him, disgust at himself. He knew Megatron’s fiery temper better than any, and yet he felt such shock and betrayal when he found himself on the receiving end of it? How naïve. The eons had made him soft. He served Kaon’s greatest warrior, the one who would rebuild Cybertron into a new age. The time for nostalgic fancies was behind them. The days of their intimacy, their brotherhood, were over.
Soundwave felt a rush of sadness at this thought, so strong that he almost stopped walking. But he thrust it down, burying it deep. He was stronger than this. He was a rock, a founding pillar of the Decepticon cause. And rocks did not feel pain. From here on out, he would touch no one, and no one would touch him. Report to the medical bay, obtain repairs, return to work. Continue ad infinitum. Then perhaps the hurt would cease.
Knock Out glanced over at the sound of the medical bay doors, but his attention was largely focused on the buffer gripped in his servo. “Ah, Soundwave! Just dropping in? While you’re here, would you be a dear and get my back? Breakdown’s out, and the Vehicons just don’t have the proper technique to—”
He broke off at the sight of the taller mech, one long servo obscuring his shattered visor. “What’s this, then?”
Soundwave uncovered his optic, and the medic recoiled with an oath before he could stop himself. The surveillance bot fixed the crimson mech in an unwavering, molten stare as Knock Out attempted to smooth his ruffled feathers.
“My apologies,” the medic sputtered, unsure whether politeness dictated looking the other bot in that terrible eye, or the far more preferable option of averting his gaze. Modesty had never been high on Knock Out’s list of concerns—such was the life of a doctor—but seeing Soundwave’s face exposed, even partially, seemed so…improper.
“By the Allspark, what happened to you?” Knock Out quickly laid aside his buffer and moved to the examination table, though somewhat unsure of how to proceed.
Soundwave gave no reply, but picked out a shard of glass embedded between the remains of his visor and his faceplate. He gestured to the cut below his optic, still oozing energon.
Knock Out fumbled with his tools as the dark bot laid down upon the table. How was he supposed to tell the difference between that monstrous face and an actual wound?
“Right, first I’ll need to remove the rest of the visor,” the medic said, mustering up every ounce of smooth professionalism he possessed to help bury the revulsion engendered by the sight of the surveillance mech’s exposed faceplate. “I will construct a temporary one until I can dig the replacement parts out of storage, but it won’t have all the same functions. Most remote operations will have to be performed from a console.”
Knock Out knew Soundwave was likely already aware of such things, but he kept rattling on, if only to distract himself while he carefully removed the rest of the slender mech’s visor.
At last the plating fell away, and Knock Out laid it aside, beholding Soundwave’s fully exposed faceplate. Those monstrous, flaring optics stared back at him, and the medic knew he would never view the other mech the same, even with his face obscured. Had he looked like that all this time? Ignorance truly was bliss.
“If I may be so bold,” Knock Out ventured, using tweezers to delicately pick shards of glass from among the jagged contortions of the dark bot’s plating, “what brought about such an…unfortunate accident?”
Soundwave’s optics snapped away from the medic, the sudden motion almost causing the crimson bot to jump. His silence was so different now, without the facelessness to accompany it. That mockery of a faceplate displayed such emotion; Knock Out knew the sight would haunt him forever. But the dark mech gave no answer to his question, and Knock Out was too afraid to press further.
“Right, that should hold you until I can get a replacement.” The medic said, securing the dark sheet of glass over Soundwave’s faceplate and obscuring that terrible gaze once more. “Just try not to go breaking it too quickly—spare parts for the likes of you are in short supply these days.”
His attempt at familiarity fell flat. Soundwave ran spindly digits across the dark surface as he rose, and the medic stepped back, almost wary. He had never noticed before how much taller than him Soundwave was, but now he felt puny before that towering dread of a mech.
“You could stay here so I can keep an eye on you in case of rust infection,” Knock Out suggested, trying hard to keep his tone professional, “Or if you’d rather rest in your quarters—”
But Soundwave was already heading for the door. Without a word, he exited as silently as he had come, and the door slammed shut behind him. Knock Out heaved a sigh of relief, picking up his buffer once more. After that ordeal, his finish felt as though it needed three passes just to rid himself of the sensation left by that molten gaze.
In his quarters, Soundwave detached Laserbeak from his chassis, allowing the minicon to hover to his own small berth. The small bot gave a worried chirrup, still concerned for his master. Soundwave caressed spidery digits across the minicon’s frame with an absent servo, but his thoughts were far away.
He had failed Megatron. How? It did not matter—he had failed, and had reaped the consequences. His nostalgia had blinded him, made him arrogant. He had presumed Megatron’s favor for too long, and now it had caught up to him. He would simply have to do better in the future. No longer a brother, only a soldier.
“Soundwave?”
The dark bot turned at the voice and saw that looming figure. Crimson optics fixed upon him, freezing him in place.
“I knocked,” Megatron said, “but you did not answer.”
The warlord eyed the slender mech, full of uncertainty. His behavior was off. Well, that was to be expected—he had hit Soundwave with a blow amplified by the blood of Unicron. Even Starscream had not been the recipient of such force.
Megatron took a step forward. “I see Knock Out has provided you with—”
Soundwave flinched. The motion was almost imperceptible. But it stabbed Megatron’s spark like the blade of a Prime. He halted, anguish twisting within him, fury both at himself and at that cursed Unicron. What had he done?
Throwing aside all pretense, Megatron got to the point. “Soundwave. I wish to speak to you about what happened earlier. Unicron, curse him to the pit, was too much for me at that moment.”
The warlord knew he sounded clumsy and brusque, but he knew no other way. He was unaccustomed to such personalities. Soundwave, for his part, merely stood, tensed, waiting for his leader to continue.
“While you were in the medical bay, I descended below to take audience with Unicron himself,” Megatron went on, hoping an explanation would remedy things. “The legends spoke true—he is a force beyond any we have ever encountered, and of most import, he will not be subject to anyone. He is merely an obstacle to our cause. I did not know this before, but I am very aware of it now.”
The warlord watched for Soundwave’s reaction, but could discern nothing from the dark spy’s posture. Slowly, giving Soundwave plenty of time to react, he lifted a servo.
“My grievance against you has made me realize the danger of Unicron,” Megatron said. He reached out, taking great care to avoid sudden movements, wary of spooking the silent bot.
Soundwave almost drew back. But he held his ground, allowing Megatron to encase the side of his faceplate in one massive servo, the silver mech exercising a gentleness reserved for no other.
“It was Unicron who struck you,” Megatron went on, gaining a little confidence, though he could see the other mech was still cautious, tense. “This does not excuse my action. But you know that I have never willingly raised a servo to you. I loathed it in the pits of Kaon, and I loathe it now.”
He hesitated before continuing. The effort of swallowing his pride was a tremendous one, even for his brother’s sake. “As such…I ask for your forgiveness.”
Soundwave looked up at the warlord, his spark thrumming with a mass of conflicting impulses. Foremost was joy—he would not have to forsake his brother’s companionship, one of his last remaining remnants of life on Cybertron.
But part of him was still wary. He felt again the tremendous force of the warlord’s blow, felt the sting of glass slicing into his faceplate. The action had shattered his trust in Megatron along with his visor. Need he only apologize, and all would be well?
The warlord seemed to sense Soundwave’s hesitation, for his head tilted, scarlet optics full of regret. “May I see it?” he inquired softly.
Soundwave knew what he spoke of. Fear almost pushed him to refuse, but he considered the sensation of his brother’s servo still cupping his faceplate with all the gentleness such a warrior could muster. If things were to be mended between them, it would require being uncomfortable for a little, even if that meant submitting to the mortifying ordeal of being vulnerable.
Reaching up with one long servo, Soundwave clasped the temporary visor with spidery digits. Megatron withdrew his hand, watching carefully. A soft hiss signaled decompression, and Soundwave lowered the sheet of glass to expose the twisting, gnarled expanse of his faceplate, optics flaring like molten rubies. Below that baleful stare was still the healing cut left by the jagged shard.
Megatron ran his thumb along the place. The jagged ridges of Soundwave’s faceplate shifted, but the warlord could not discern what expression crossed that dreadful visage. Still, the dark bot did not withdraw from his touch.
“I have made many mistakes in my time,” Megatron murmured, “and I have not always regretted them. But this is one error that, if I could turn back time to prevent, I would do so in a moment.”
Here he paused again. Even now, his pride continued to hold him back, his own nature fighting him with a strength greater than any Prime. But with an enormous effort, he continued. “I ask, dear Soundwave, that you accept my deepest and most sincere apologies for my grievance against you.”
For what seemed an eternity, Soundwave gave no response. Megatron stared into those terrible optics, striving to convey his remorse. Neither made a single movement.
Then the dark bot’s faceplate twisted. So antithetical was his visage that it took Megatron several moments to piece together an expression from those contorted mechanisms. But finally he realized—Soundwave smiled.
A surge of relief rushed through the warlord. “I take it you have accepted?” he inquired cautiously.
Soundwave reached up with both long servos. Against the scarred silver of his leader’s plating, the dark bot’s spidery digits seemed so delicate that a sparkling could have snapped them in two. He wrapped them about the warlord’s faceplate and drew his head down until their brows were pressed together.
The surveillance chief considered breaking his vow then and there. But he restrained himself, instead retrieving a memory from far away and long ago. He looked up into the scarlet optics filling his vision.
“Lead on, my brother,” came the modulating tone of his ancient voice. “I will follow.”